Beast
El Coyote
Rating:
3L - 3S - 3V
| Discord Tag: Tag Immediately
Just The Dog
Profile Pages
Species
Anatolian Shepherd Dog (50%), Coyote (50%)
Age
4
Birth Date
Sex
Cis Male (He/Him, It/Its)
Height
Very Tall
Weight
Heavy
Build
Stocky
Scent
Copper, Dirt, Wet Dog
Eyes
Dark Orange
Fur
Tan, Umber, Black
Visible Oddities
Titanium canines, 'X' scar on left cheek
Traits
Cautious, Reclusive, Avoidant, Stubborn, Curious
Mark of Mythris
Glowing, scrawling runes during heightened emotional state
Coyote's history contains mentions of animal abuse, neglect, and dog fighting.
DEAD ON ARRIVAL.
Coyote speaks with a thick Mexican accent
Speaks English and Spanish
Coyote's existence wasn't intentional but his downfall was.
Born to a mother whose duty it was to guard livestock, he was an example of truly unfortunate standards that, in time, would lead to unfortunate decisions. He was cared for by a human, that much he recalls, but this period is a blur in the subconscious wherein he remembers a full stomach and gentle hands instead of true specifics. Under his human's care, he'd grow fast and he'd grow strong.
"Es una bestia."
This meant nothing to him. He was a good dog.
"No es un perro, tonto."
His human would only laugh. Nonsense. It was nonsense. Neither he nor his human would truly grasp what others saw for his human looked at him with love alone; but Coyote had grown to be a brute. Larger than even his mother who already stood as a giant of giants, what did this mean to him? Nothing. But soon interest was drummed, unforgiving intent of unforgiving men.
During a time of hardship, his human—his only human—would sell him to a wealthy man who offered a great sum of money, and a wealthy man is a good man, no? His human didn't know better.
From the cradle of affection to the pit of fangs, Coyote would earn his name the night he was thrown untrained into a dog fight. His opponent was so small, he didn't want to hurt them, but the lights were harsh and the crowd jeered and the dog wouldn't stop biting and tearing and—
—he doesn't remember killing them, he just wanted the noise to stop.
Everyone loved him, man said. Didn't matter which.
Each fight would sound the same.
"¡Es a quien viniste a ver, el COYOTE!" It'd be hollered out.
Blood on his jaws.
He was good at this, no dog bested him.
Then, did it not only make sense for man to be his end?
Coyote doesn't recall what happened, just that it did; man looping the rope around his neck to guide him to the pit, man hating at him, him hating man.
He doesn't know why he bit him, doesn't know why he never stopped when man after man shouted out, ¡Basta!
Stop that? Why.
He never stopped before.
He only ever stopped when the gun fired.
Born to a mother whose duty it was to guard livestock, he was an example of truly unfortunate standards that, in time, would lead to unfortunate decisions. He was cared for by a human, that much he recalls, but this period is a blur in the subconscious wherein he remembers a full stomach and gentle hands instead of true specifics. Under his human's care, he'd grow fast and he'd grow strong.
"Es una bestia."
This meant nothing to him. He was a good dog.
"No es un perro, tonto."
His human would only laugh. Nonsense. It was nonsense. Neither he nor his human would truly grasp what others saw for his human looked at him with love alone; but Coyote had grown to be a brute. Larger than even his mother who already stood as a giant of giants, what did this mean to him? Nothing. But soon interest was drummed, unforgiving intent of unforgiving men.
During a time of hardship, his human—his only human—would sell him to a wealthy man who offered a great sum of money, and a wealthy man is a good man, no? His human didn't know better.
From the cradle of affection to the pit of fangs, Coyote would earn his name the night he was thrown untrained into a dog fight. His opponent was so small, he didn't want to hurt them, but the lights were harsh and the crowd jeered and the dog wouldn't stop biting and tearing and—
—he doesn't remember killing them, he just wanted the noise to stop.
Everyone loved him, man said. Didn't matter which.
Each fight would sound the same.
"¡Es a quien viniste a ver, el COYOTE!" It'd be hollered out.
Blood on his jaws.
He was good at this, no dog bested him.
Then, did it not only make sense for man to be his end?
Coyote doesn't recall what happened, just that it did; man looping the rope around his neck to guide him to the pit, man hating at him, him hating man.
He doesn't know why he bit him, doesn't know why he never stopped when man after man shouted out, ¡Basta!
Stop that? Why.
He never stopped before.
He only ever stopped when the gun fired.
3 - 3 - 3
Code by Sauwce
Despite what appearances may say, Coyote is a fearful creature. He moves throughout life anticipating a strike, a bite, a fight. He will go out of his way to avoid interactions with others because of this, even smaller creatures make him nervous, but when confronted, he won't waver. He'll get them before they ever get him. Coyote's not wholly negatives, though. If given his space, he can be rather curious of others, almost innocently intrigued about the lives of those beyond his scope.
